


Her Hands

by populardarling



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark Swan yet not Dark Swan, F/M, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:04:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/populardarling/pseuds/populardarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as he’s known her he’s never been able to take his eyes off her. But something is different now. Something is off. </p><p>Killian stays next to Emma through the night as she makes her dreamcatchers, making sure the darkness stays away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the recent sneak peek and now have this headcanon that Killian sits at Emma’s side all night, worried and to make sure she won’t do something she’ll regret later on. Enjoy!

He is mesmerized by the swiftness of her hands, the delicate touch they carry holding the circular frame as she weaves the shells into the dreamcatcher. For as long as he’s known her he’s never been able to take his eyes off her. Everything about her has always captivated his attention—her smile ( _oh her smile_ ) and the way it lit up her entire face, her no-nonsense attitude, her sarcastic wit that battled his own, the way the sun always hit just right on her golden locks… She’s always been able to hold his attention without even trying, but this is different. His attention was never brought by concern like it was now. 

Her eyes never leave the dreamcatcher, hands blindly searching for more shells, and he casually hands one to her. She doesn’t thank him, doesn’t say anything to him. She only continues on with her work and he doesn’t mind it as much as he did when they first started doing this. It was all part of their routine now. She would weave and wrap and carve and he would sit there, waiting for her hand to reach out for whatever she needed and hand it to her.

He didn’t used to sit out the nights with her like this, but now it’s harder to trust what she’ll do when by herself. He trusts _Emma_ , of course. She is still his sharp-witted princess who put her foot down when Arthur’s men brought a more knightly attire when they first arrived—“You may be a hero,” she teased when he came out wearing the red vest and leather coat, “but the pirate look stays. Now unbutton that shirt a bit, Captain, before I do it myself.”—who until recently kept a close, motherly watch of Henry and his escapades out with the stable girl, insisting she was just making sure he wasn’t getting into mischief. She was still his Swan, but something is different now. 

Something is off. 

Perhaps it’s because he found her alone in the room where Regina kept the dagger stashed away for safe keeping, eyes focused on the wardrobe the entire night as they waited for the sun to rise and her parents to wake. Darkness is a dangerous thing; he knows that. He’s been there. It’s tempting and persuasive and preys on the weak. But Emma is one of the strongest women he knows, if not the strongest. He has complete faith in her overcoming this obstacle she was forced into choosing, but for now he’s wary. He’s wary of what that voice is telling her to do, wary of how obvious it is that her willpower is weakening as the days slip into weeks. 

“You should get some sleep.” It takes him a moment to realize the comment’s directed toward him and not at the voice she’s been muttering to all night. He blinks, vision blurred from exhaustion, and shakes his head to clear it. She’s staring at him with a sad, understanding smile and kisses his hand. “Go to bed, Killian. It’s late.” 

His back cracks as he arches it in a stretch and looks around the room, wondering what time it was. It was so hard to tell with the stained glass windows being covered by her collection of dreamcatchers. He shakes his head again and denies that he’s even tired. 

“You forget I spent many a century sailing the seas, Swan. I’m used to staying awake for long periods of time.” 

“But I know it’s because of me,” she argues point-blank and ever his Swan. “One of us should be able to sleep and if it’s not me, then it has to be you.” 

“I’m not tired, love. Now, have you finished with your contraption?” he asks to cover up an incoming yawn. Her eyebrow lifts at the poor attempt, but she holds it up for him to see. The thing looked like all the others, he observes, taking note of the shape and the patterned string she tended to lean towards, but this one held the shells he found for her on his most recent trip through the forest to find her more wood to carve. She was always asking for things for her dreamcatchers these days, constantly explaining that this helps keep the darkness at bay during the night. It was a complete and utter lie and they both knew that, but he obliged when she asked, knowing there was not much else he could do for her that didn’t require a saucy wizard. 

“Lovely as ever,” he smiles. “Now let’s hang it up and lie down, hm? Where do you want it?” He moves to hang it near the window by the others, but she stops him and explains that this one is special. 

“We can’t have The Jolly Roger with us,” she tells him and he follows her to the four-post bed, not quite understanding what she is getting at, and watches her climb up and crawl to the headboard. “But we can still have a little bit of the sea.” She hangs it on the bed and traces its edges. “There.” 

The lopsided dreamcatcher looks odd against the rich mahogany bed, but it’s been so long since he’s seen her smile like this that he pulls her towards him and refuses to let her go. He’ll squeeze the darkness out of her, if need be. Her hands trace the lines on his face, the scar running down his cheek, his ears, winds themselves through his hair. Anywhere they can touch they do. It’s what she does, what she’s always done, but her touches have become heightened since her small confession of what she does to keep the voice away. “It doesn’t like you and Henry,” she told him their second night in Camelot. “It wants you both gone, but it goes away when I’m hugging you, holding your hand, kissing. Not always, but most times it works.” 

Their lips brush against each other now; hers chap and flavored of mint she’s constantly chewing. He closes his eyes, ingraining this moment because they are becoming far and few in between as she battles the demon inside her. And like most of their interactions recently, the kiss is chaste at best because she pulls away abruptly and slinks off the bed, eyes wide in alarm.

“Emma, what is it?” He’s looking around now, knowing the Crocodile is here somewhere, whispering in her ear. “Emma, look at me. Hey, look at me.” He grabs her face to direct her attention away from the dreamcatchers, but her mind is somewhere else now. Listening to that damn voice again.  

As if not even seeing him now, she pulls away and blindly walks to her worktable, hands already reaching for her knife and stick. She’s muttering something unintelligible under her breath as her hands set to work, so meticulous in their action. So graceful. It’s been almost four weeks since they’ve arrived at Camelot and she’s already created close to a hundred of these dreamcatchers. Will continue making more if she thinks it settles the voice in her head.

There is still enough time to lie down and get a decent hour or two of rest, but he takes his place next to his Swan and when her hand reaches for a bead, he hands it to her without a word. 

 


End file.
